I hope you will always remember——” Annabel held out her hands with a little cry of protest. “Is that plain?” she asked. “It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall. In this way, more than a month passed over. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out.
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